#whiskyscots

Arthur SCREECHES and immediately flails his arms and legs like a startled, angry cat.

     “I am, your bed is quite soft.”      Aleksander takes the looks with pride, knowing his appearance was entirely unexpected, as was his presence here instead of, as Alasdair has suggested, his own quarters. The one halfway across the compound, far enough away that it would be an annoying trek in the middle of the night. So, what was a better and more efficient place to be than right here?

     Amusement was clear on his face, all of the barbs and jabs to his prophetic and spoiled status merely making the Norseman’s grin wider. He was well aware that such things were merely thrown at him to tease, not really to hurt or mock. Not anymore, anyway. “Oh, do tell me how much of an annoyance I am, Alasdair, I do love to hear your complaints about how spoiled, well fed and well-bathed I am. How much you hate being around me.” 

MOODBOARDS || selectively accepting

She leaves it on the kitchen table for Fannar while she goes to wash up, with a warning of, "Do not open it until I come back, or else! I want to see."

Of course, if Fannar were to open the box without her, he'd find a wooden painted train carriage. Beautifully carved, coloured by hand in Christmas colours of red and green and gold, filigree swirling around each side. The metal axels and wheels beneath gleam to a polished shine, and care obviously oozes from every corner.

There's a note slipped beside the carriage in the box, short and sweet:

Fan,

Merry Christmas, Nollaig Chridheil, Gleðileg jól! Hope its a good one, lad. Be sure to add this to the collection, and let me know when there isn't enough room on the tracks - I'll make you more of them too.

Let me know if Eir gets home safe, I know she won't do it herself.

Alasdair.

Fannar knows better than to go against Eir's wishes on this sort of thing, but he can't help the burning curiosity while she showers and it just sits there. He resists for a while, but when he decides his sister is simply taking too long, he carefully opens it without her. Sorry, Eir.

He can't help but grin at the sight of the little train, and he handles it with the utmost care as he tugs the note from the box as well. Fannar sits for a while and admires the little train, even moreso now he recognises it as handmade.

[til: Alasdair] Eir got home safely! Thank you so much for this. It's absolutely beautiful — I've got the perfect place for it. Thank you. Gleðileg jól!

     “No. Don’t want to.”

     It was a mumbled reply, the silver-haired witcher just pressing himself even closer against Alasdair if that was even possible. Even if they weren’t over-wintering right now, even if they were at the peak season for contracts, Gilbert could not will himself to full consciousness, couldn’t want to untangle himself from the bear holding him. There were a million and one things a witcher could be doing on a nice, sunny morning, and none of them were the least bit attractive compared to this.

     Witchers took home with them wherever they went, or so the humans said. It wasn’t really true. Kaer Morhen was his home, as was Haern Caduch on the off-chance Gilbert ever found himself so far north. The wolves of Kaer Morhen were his brothers, and the man tucked beside him? More than brothers, more than home.

Watching Alasdair pull the paintings one by one out of the envelope brought a smile to Francis’ face and a warmth to his heart. He didn’t bother to look at the paintings again -as those were neither here nor there to him- but instead his eyes were locked on his husband’s reaction to them. There was a careful, vulnerable smile on his face as he gauged the reaction to each of them, and he could already feel the tears welling in his own eyes before the card was even pulled out. God, it was so hard to get a gift for Alasdair- and Francis always defaulted to painting when he was stuck. The sincerity and affection in his heart at this exact moment of unwrapping them reminded him of how alive and lucky he truly was.

“ Awww, yer legs didn’t even buckle. ”

     Fortunately, Georgie’s excitement far surpassed any disappointment they might feel at their failed attempt at a tackle. Small arms coiled tightly around Alasdair’s waist as they leapt into his arms, fully trusting that he would catch them before they could fall into the pebbly shore. The air around them is accentuated with cheeky giggles and hearty laughs, all manner of joyous sounds ringing in equal measure. 

     For the past few weeks, Georgie had been meticulously counting down the days on their calendar until Alasdair’s arrival, as they always did in between visits. They didn’t mind being alone-- as a matter of fact, they preferred it-- but their father country’s visits were something cherished and sacred, and they awaited each one reverently. 

“ Aye! ” his praise made them beam with pride, grinning up at him with that classic metallic smile of theirs. “ It’s all in th'legs. And also th’arms. And everywhere else, really-- America don’t hae nothin’ on this! ”

     Georgie eventually released him, but only in order to flex their arms proudly.  

Come Get Ya'lls Smooches || accepting [1/5]

@whiskyscots

     Alasdair wasn't exactly the outwardly affectionate type... At least, not when it came to Craig. His own kid was a different story, but it was clear that there was a bit more emotional distance between Craig and his uncle-- mostly due to the other's complicated relationship with his father. Nevertheless, Craig tried not to take it personally. Al was still family, after all.

     Which is why, when Craig saw Alasdair passed out on the couch ( likely the result of a night's worth of pub-hopping with some friends, if he had to guess ), he wordlessly fetched a blanket to drape over his sleeping form. It'd be pointless to try and move him, so he simply tried to make him comfortable where he was. Though he suspected there would still be complaints of a sore back in the morning.

     After Alasdair was sufficiently tucked in, Craig moved to press a soft kiss to his forehead. He's not entirely sure what compelled him to do it, if he was being honest. Perhaps he was getting sentimental in his old(ish) age.